


Cold

by Elektra Pendragon (elekdragon)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-02-13
Updated: 2000-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-17 07:31:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elekdragon/pseuds/Elektra%20Pendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nineteen-year-old Anakin tries everything to get warm, but instead he discovers new meaning to the word "cold."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold

**Author's Note:**

> This came out of a discussion with some friends after watching Episode One, where we decided Vader's black suit is actually an elaborate heating system. Doesn't quite follow the Star Wars timeline, and I take liberties of playing with Anakin's head.

Wrapped up in a lonely cocoon of blankets, I can't help but dwell on the shivering  
cold that lances through my veins. I can almost picture it in my mind, though my Force  
abilities are somewhat hazy at the moment. Tiny ice shards radiate out of a pulsing ball of  
snow crystals buried deep inside my stomach. I cannot get comfortable, I cannot  
meditate, I cannot sleep. We've been onboard this ship for three days, and by my  
Master's orders I have been forced to spend each of those days in seclusion to prepare for  
my Trials. I've completed my final mission as a Padawan, and now we are returning to  
Coruscant so that I may become a Jedi Knight at long last. All I can do is suffer in my  
empty quarters and wait for our return to the planet’s surface.

I think I will always hate space. It's cold. Master Yoda would say that Hate is of  
the Dark Side, but so is space and therefore I feel warranted in my feelings towards it.  
When I was young, I used to love looking skyward; the nights on Tatooine were chill but  
clear, and I could count as many stars as I could remember. On the night I had met my  
future fate, Qui-Gon had told me that each of those stars had a system of planets. I don't  
quite remember what I had replied. It has been ten years since he'd died, and Master  
Kenobi took his place in my life. What I do remember most clearly about my last days on  
Tatooine is the afternoon I left. The second we escaped the blistering atmosphere of the  
planet, a bone-freezing chill overcame me--I could feel the darkness enfold the ship,  
greedily devouring the desert's heat and replacing it with its own soul-less, empty,  
powerful night.

The prophetic dreams hadn't told me how much it would hurt to be embraced by  
darkness, or why I had yearned to touch it for so many years. As the child I was, I could  
think only about was how I was cold, and that I wanted to go back to my warm home and  
walk in the daylight. Ten years ago, I stuffed every bit of the cold I felt into a tiny ball,  
where it sits to this day uncomfortable in my belly.

I've hated space travel ever since that afternoon. Oh, I can pilot any craft and do  
as often as I can, but I am never so glad as to stand in sunlight and feel the hot noon sun  
try to melt the inner ice. The cold ball has never gone away; its just been pushed deeper  
over the years. Times like these--when I am full of anxiety and left without tasks to  
occupy my mind--the tiny ball starts to unravel like a child holding his arms out to his  
mother. Space, in turn, holds out her vacuous arms to embrace her lost son, and I am  
pulled between them. There is little that can bring relief to this pain.

My cloak is no protection from the ice, but its weight gives me some measure of  
comfort. The blankets too add their weight to the fight to keep me functionally warm. I  
have not slept nor have I been able to meditate with the Force since we left Ja'han three  
days ago. The first hours of space travel had been a terror to endure, and these last hours  
before arrival is pure torture. There are only two things that I've found in my years of  
space travel that will return the desert's heat to my veins at times like these--one is nearby  
in a pouch on my belt, the other is somewhere on this ship far outside my reach.

The first, most available option is called Ahluutan extract. I discovered it on a  
previous mission to an outer-rim ice planet. The inhabitants use it in a religious ceremony,  
injecting themselves before stripping naked and frolicking in the sub-zero blizzards. It was  
the only thing that made that mission bearable. I had sworn I would never use it again, but  
every mission a vial finds its way to my bloodstream all the same. The Code forbids this  
dangerous weakness in discipline, but in lieu of any other means of heat regeneration, I  
think the Council would forgive me my trespass. I won't ever voluntarily tell them of my  
little secret, but if I had, I think I am correct in assuming they would allow it as an extreme  
emergency. My body still hums with my last dose, the drying sweat of returning need  
chills my soul further.

My other option is called Obi-Wan Kenobi, my Master. One glance from his  
enigmatic eyes sets my blood on fire. Near him, I burn with a pure flame that I often  
fantasize will one day save me from my inner cold. But my Master has been busy with  
Supreme Chancellor Palpatine elsewhere on the ship; I haven't spoken to him since we  
boarded the star cruiser. He has no inkling of my raging hunger for him, nor do I think I  
will ever tell him.

Since I cannot leave my room, I have done nothing for hours but stare at the only  
other piece of furniture in the tiny space other than the bed. On top of the undistinguished  
bedside table lays my Jedi belt, complete with lightsaber attachment and multi-purpose  
carrying cases. It is a self-inflicted punishment, this vigil. Inside the smallest of the  
pouches concealed in the back there is a palm-length vial of liquid heat just waiting for me  
to give into its seductive touch, as I have already done myriad times on this journey.

I've been forcing myself to ration out the vital extract over the journey, but my  
attempts to enforce a self-inflicted one-dose-a-day habit has thus far failed. I've had one  
dose today, and I need another. Every time I take the drug I need a larger dose the next  
time--for there can be no doubt that there will be a next time. I should not have another  
today, lest I wish to find myself hopelessly addicted to its relief.

I'm not an addict yet. I merely want one more hit, just to get me through till  
morning. Just a little bit, just a small flash of fire to get me through the night. A tiny taste  
of that heat I am missing, just a drop. A tiny drop, that won't hurt me...

Throwing off the blankets, I stand to pace the limited floor of my small cabin,  
keeping my mind and my body as far as possible from the reaches of space and drug. Still,  
the frost of space trickles in through the thick metal and makes me shiver. The blue liquid  
hidden from view calls to me to taste its release. Movement keeps me somewhat warm,  
so I continue the pace. I take six steps, reach the blank wall, then turn to follow my path  
exactly. Six steps, blank wall. My footsteps are light and silent, my movements quick. If  
only my mind could be as weightless, then I wouldn't have such heavy thoughts making  
my head feel as though it will explode. Six steps. Blank wall. Six steps. Blank wall. Six  
steps.

My veins, ripped and torn by the ice circulating within, scream for anything to  
make them stop feeling pain. Take the drug, and suffer the consequences. Run to my  
Master, and feel like a foolish child. Blank wall. Six steps. Blank wall. I don't want the  
drug's painfully lonely embrace; I want Master Kenobi here with me. His calming  
presence and warm eyes is the only thing that truly masters my turbulent spirit. Blocked  
by the extract, the comfort of the Force is fuzzily distant to me now, but the soothing  
touch of his hand to my brow is all I will need to feel better. Six steps. Blank wall.

My feet come to a complete stop in front of the wall that separates our rooms. It  
is late, and whatever business he had with the Chancellor must surely be over now. I lean  
my forehead against the cool surface as I turn inward and concentrate. At first, the Force  
eludes me. I can feel it swimming around me, but it mocks my attempts to hold it near. I  
close my eyes and press my entire person against the metal. My nose is crushed painfully,  
and my lips turn blue from the cold. My tongue flicks out to warm them, but it slides to  
no avail between them and the wall. It is hard to breathe like this, so I slow my respiration  
to stave off the panic of asphyxia.

Connection with my Master is never as easy as it could have been, even without  
the lingering effects of the drug. We've never had a training bond like other  
master-padawan pairs. The Council told me that it was because I was too old when I  
began my training. I have learned to endure this isolation as I have all else, except in times  
of dire need as now.

I hunger for the warmth of his connection, the true respite I find only at his  
presence. And still the Force alludes my call. I open my palms, splay my fingers across  
the smoothness, and push firmly. I thrust my hips forward, grinding against the barrier. I  
rub my cheek against the coolness. Any closer and my body would have no choice but to  
pass through the material. The hard wall bleaches out what heat I still have in my exposed  
skin, and my outer temperature drops another degree under my heavy cloak.

I feel a flicker. It is the Force-equivalent of a fish swimming in a shallow stream.  
With my mind I wrap a fist around it, crushing it to my will as I call upon the Force.  
There, caught it. Cautiously, I send out a small tendril through to the other room to reach  
for my Master. The Force briefly touches his mind, and I can feel his fuzzy dreams against  
my eyelids. Humanoid shapes move and blend in the miasma of dream-thought; their  
shadow-puppet meaning eludes me.

The fragile bond breaks, and his mind slips my grasp. The slippery fish returns to  
the stream, leaving me bereft. Starving. Aching. Alone. Cold.

Being stationary renews my shivers, and I push away from the cold wall. My braid  
whips past my face as I turn on my heel, pacing with more determination than before. Six  
steps. Blank wall. Six steps. Blank wall. I shove my hands deep into the sleeves of my  
cloak to wrap my arms around my chest. The skin of my fingers is cool and does not  
warm; space has robbed me of even the simple ability to heat my own body. Six steps.

Blank wall. My Master sleeps, and I do not wake him. From that arena I will find  
no succor tonight. Tomorrow, we will arrive at Coruscant, and I will take my Trials. And  
I will fail because a Jedi who cannot find peace cannot be one with the Force. I need to be  
free of this damnable cold! Six steps. My Master sleeps, and there is but one other way  
that I can find some rest. I am loathe to take advantage of it. Blank wall. The Code  
forbids a Jedi from using any form of drug; mediation is all a Jedi needs to find an altered  
state of consciousness, to reach peace. Six steps. Blank wall. I cannot meditate, nor find  
my center. My Master sleeps. I am alone. I need relief. I need to finish my Trials. I will  
be a Jedi.

Four steps. Bedside table.

My fingers tremble as they open the smaller of the packets on my belt. The tiny  
blue vial and its accompanying long-needled syringe leaps to my fingers, eager to be used.  
I prepare the dose with familiar ease, for truly only a handful of hours has passed since I  
last moved through this procedure. The syringe easily perforates the waxy lid, stabbing  
into the vial like a small silver sword. Pulling back the plunger, I fill the hollow cylinder  
with a half-dose of blue liquid, tap out the bubbles, and send a small arc of crystal through  
the air. It is a paltry amount compared to what I am used to shooting, but it will be  
enough to take the edge off and maybe give me a few hours of sleep before morning.

My sash comes off easily without the impediment of the heavy belt. Weighted by  
my heavy cloak, the rough fabric of my tunic falls open to bare my abdomen to the  
gleaming sword. With one hand I pull the hemline of my leggings down near my groin  
while with the other I hold the needle close to my skin. I shiver violently with the first  
intimate brush of cold air against my naked flesh; the uncontrolled movement scores a line  
of blood across my injection-bruised belly. I straighten my back to take a steadying deep  
breath and place the tip halfway between my navel and my groin. The needle barely brings  
any pain when it punctures the skin, but once it stabs deeply the quivering muscle I  
whimper at the ache. In a single, sudden movement, I drive it in until I feel it nudge that  
special area inside where the cold is gathered.

Depressing the plunger, I moan out loud. The touch of the extract burns as it  
meets my blood; the noises I make echo in my head as I try to keep them quiet. My tears  
are not as easy to suppress. It is an exercise in will power to finish emptying the blazing  
extract into my belly. The fire grows as it pools deep inside.

The extraction of the needle is more painful than the injection of it--the remnant  
drops of Ahluutan draw a ragged abyss through my insides, ensuring that the bleeding will  
be difficult to stop. I place a hand over the wound as I lean over and drop the syringe and  
vial into their place in the pouch.

The first unruly twinge hits suddenly at the moment I am least prepared for it. The  
ball of snow in my middle plunges into the lake of fire injected in my lower belly, dragging  
my heart, my lungs, and my stomach with it. The force of it tosses me backwards onto my  
bed, but even though I feel the solid weight of the mattress against my back, it seems I'm  
falling clear through to the floor.

Fire. It burns through my blood, spreading through my body in flickering waves  
that make my breath come fast and hard. It hurts, but the pain feels so good--space's  
empty cold filled with liquid flame. It radiates outward from the center of my body with a  
near-sentient desire to find out and fill every dark place within me. In the wake of every  
wave, there is an echo of haunting chill. I want to scream when the blue flame reaches my  
brain to cradle my thoughts with its heat, but my voice, like my breath, is locked in my  
seizing throat.

I break out in a hard sweat as the waves come quicker, but the chill doesn't reach  
my mind or thoughts. I am well shielded from any outside sensation. I close my eyes,  
insulated for a time from the reaches of outer space and inner cold. I know my body is  
shaking violently in the grip of the extract-induced fever, but I am disconnected from it. I  
can't even feel the Force.

Finally, I hit the golden moment when the waves come so fast there is no more  
pain between them--nothing but blank bliss. In the insubstantial arms of the exotic drug I  
float without fear. Not sleeping, but at ease. The dark cold of space isn't so scary like  
this. Not-quite dream images whisper many things into my ears, but I can't care enough  
to listen to them. I feel too good.

As great as the Ahluutan can be, the aftermath is horrible.

To me, it feels as though I have only just dosed up. To the rest of the world, time  
continues to move at the same ecstatic pace. Ahluutan is a lot like pod racing; big rush,  
very dangerous, and all too soon it is over. The end starts with a tug at my stomach,  
pulling me out of my floating haze. The tug becomes a pull, the pull becomes a push, the  
push becomes a spike-covered fist burying itself in my gut as the ice re-emerges from the  
extract's grasp. I curl up, fetal position, to wait for it to pass. The burn turns me inside  
out.

As bad as the coming down can be, going without would be worse.

With a deep breath, I am free of its strong grip, and the cold returns with greater  
intensity. My skin tingles with the fast disappearing fingers of warmth as I am left without  
my injected insulation; beneath the thin coating of sweat and blood my stomach flutters  
with chills. I am laid bare, and emptiness rushes in to consume me. I allow myself a single  
cry of anguish at my loss before I gather my cloak to hold on to what heat I can.

I check the chronometer next to the bed. Only two hours have passed. Three  
more until the ship awakens. Eight until we reach Coruscant. Fifteen to the Trials. Never  
enough time.

It was a mistake to give into the temptation--too soon, and not enough--and now I  
am worse off than before. I feel all the more tired, only now it goes bone-deep. My  
bedding is soaked and chilled with my sickness. My stomach is so bruised it hurts to sit  
up. Blood from my wound stains my fingers, and beneath my tunic I can feel its half-dried  
slickness covering my skin. I am wrung out. Even the frenetic energy that comes from  
shivery-jerky chilled muscles is used up by the drug, and I have nothing left to protect me  
from space's embrace. The Force is a drug-hazed blur at the edge of my mind. Weak, I  
am the frightened child I once was, shivering alone in the cold space, dreaming of being  
safe at home once again.

My knees quiver as I try to stand, and twice I fall to my knees. My head is still  
swimming from the extract. I grip the table with weak fingers, barely able to stand on my  
feet. My strength is dulled, but in nauseating contradiction my senses are too sharp. The  
room blazes with chemical light, the muted sounds of the ship's propulsion pounds against  
my abused skull, the wooden table overloads my mind with a thousand textures grating  
against my hands. I am trembling too much to breathe easily, and even this minute  
movement is exaggerated in sensation. I wait for the dizziness to pass before I abandon  
the coolness of my own cabin for my Master's. I need his presence near me, even if he is  
asleep. I can't go through this alone.

Each staggering step clears my mind of the drug's after-effects, diluting its  
strength and dulling my over-sensitive senses. The hall is empty, so there is no one to  
witness the un-Jedi unsteadiness in the dozen steps to his room. My hands still tremble as  
I key open his door, but I am able to draw in regular breaths. Little light is let in with my  
entrance as the door opens and closes around me.

Even the air here feels warmer. My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I can see  
Master Kenobi's form curled on his side on his bed. His back is to me, but I can see the  
outline of his head above the thick blanket. It is a sight with which I'm well familiar. I  
shared his sleeping space for the first years of my training, his presence and his bodyheat a  
comfort in that turbulent time of adjustment. I grew out of the need when I hit puberty,  
finding the privacy of my own room more comfortable than the arousing proximity of my  
naked Master, but even then I would come in late at night to watch him sleep. Much of  
my late night contemplations were occupied with the singular compulsion to figure out  
why he would accept me as his padawan. He argued with Qui-Gon about me. He agreed  
with the Council that I should not be trained. Even now that I am on the cusp of  
becoming a knight, when he looks at me a certain way, I can hear his soft voice tell  
Qui-Gon, "The boy is dangerous." He has never revealed his reasons for taking me on  
after Qui-Gon's death, and I've yet to press the matter with him formally. I fear what his  
answer might be.

I feel a cool draft across my face, and my folded arms convulse around my chest.  
Already, the room is becoming colder. I deliberate for all of ten seconds, then, feeling like  
the foolish child I once was, I clumsily remove my cloak as I toe off my boots. I use my  
loose tunic to wipe off the blood from my stomach before rolling it in a ball to hide the  
evidence. On top of it I fold my soft pants and cover the lot with my cloak, leaving my  
clothing in a pile next to my Master's.

Fully nude, I hesitantly take the few steps to Obi-Wan's side, unsure of my steps in  
my weakness. Lifting the blanket, I slip in behind him. The sheets are tepid with his  
bodyheat, and they warm me little as I perch at the edge of the mattress. My face blushes  
with embarrassment at being here; I haven't needed to sleep with my Master in years. It is  
an embarrassing sign of weakness to need his comfort again; I'm getting too old for a  
teddybear.

I try not to wake him as I nudge closer beside him on the narrow bedding, but one  
of my icy feet accidentally brushes his leg and he yelps awake. I feel my face burn all the  
more when he turns on his side to face me, his powerful gaze peering straight to my core.

Sleepy eyes blink, then clear with recognition. "Padawan," he greets me, "what  
are you doing here?" His voice is modulated to be neither pushy nor indifferent, merely  
serenely curious. I'm familiar with this tone. He uses it when he knows there's something  
wrong.

I am afraid he will send me away for disobeying his solitude edict, which makes it  
all the more difficult to come up with a reason to satisfy him so I can stay. "I couldn't  
sleep, my Master." His bodyheat is just outside of my touch, feather-soft and enticing. I  
shiver visibly at the agony of being so close and so separate from it. "I'm cold." My  
words come out quiet and small, trembling with my body's chill.

I think for a moment that he will send me away, but the worry crease in his  
forehead softens into the amused nose-wrinkle instead. Smiling widely, he opens his arms  
and lifts the blanket, inviting me into his space. I don't need to think about it at all; my  
body knows exactly what it wants. I leap the distance between us, slamming into his body  
in my desperation for comfort and warmth. His arms come down and bring the blanket  
with them, and suddenly I am enveloped by velvet heat. It is as wonderful as I remember  
it to be; Obi-Wan's arms are like the suns' rays wrapping around my bare skin, only softer  
and more solid.

I am no longer the small boy I was, and my taller frame doesn't fit as nicely with  
his slight body. I slide down in the bed so that I may lean my face against his chest, and  
his breath catches from the shock of the cold of my forehead. I whisper a soft "I'm sorry"  
but I'm not sure he heard it. I cannot hear my own words over the rush of heartbeat  
against my forehead. His hands on my back are two bright suns burning away the  
morning's chill. To be near him again--it quiets my mind and heart like nothing else. This  
is a peace no drug could ever bring me. His body protectively replaces the heat stolen  
from my body, and I absorb it wantonly.

Oh, I am so tired. The weight of three restless, drug-filled days falls over me, and  
I am nearer to sleep than I have been in a long time. Everything goes that special kind of  
hazy, the good kind where you are safe and nothing can hurt you, and you are happy to  
give over to the nothingness on the other side. I nuzzle into his soft chest for a while,  
soaking up his presence like a starving man at a banquet. My mind is naturally falling to  
rest outside the influence of any drug but his comforting touch. His scent is serene and  
powerful, and it entices my senses with its sweet/sour desert wind. So much like being  
home; laying in Obi-Wan's arms like this suggests the solace of the nights of my  
childhood, but with one big difference. I am no longer a child; I am a man on his way to  
knighthood.

"Thank you, my Master," I whisper into the hard muscle beneath my lips. Peace  
which had alluded me for so long comes. The Force hums joyfully to his proximity.  
Better than the drug, better than just about anything. Content and sleepy, I roll my hips to  
slip a leg over his, and feel something rise up to meet me.

I shift closer, and I feel it again jab me. Quick pain lances through an injection  
wound not quite healed as something hard, yet soft, bumps against it. A dream-like image  
of a large syringe flashes against my eyelids, but that is just silly. It is too large and too  
warm to be a needle, not to mention rather blunt. It takes long moments before my nearly  
asleep mind can grasp hold of the correct concept. I turn my face down, rubbing his chest  
with my short-cut hair, but our bodies prevent me from see that which I feel twitch in  
response. "Master, you're hard," I inform him incredulously, peering through the  
darkness at his face. His arousal burns a line across my bruised stomach. This never  
happened when I was young--in fact, I had come to the conclusion years ago that my  
Master had no sex drive at all. Surprise, surprise. I still have so much to learn about my  
Master.

"Ignore it, Anakin. It'll go away." His voice is strained, and I can feel its deeper  
undertone vibrate against my chest. It is no mere physical reaction to having a naked body  
pressed to his. My Master truly desires me--I can feel it in his voice.

I don't want to ignore it. I'd never seen my Master with a lover, though I had  
imagined myself in that place numerous times in my young teens. I wiggle a little lower  
into his arms and am rewarded by a flash of heat across my upper abdomen. His arms are  
stiff, dancing the line between pushing me away and drawing me closer. My arms are  
loose and holding his hips to prevent him from moving one centimeter away. I look up to  
his face, asking for leave to do as we both wish.

"No, Anakin," he orders sharply. His mercurial eyes tell me to back off with his  
strictest gaze. His arms shift to grasp my shoulder, ready to kindly and gently rebuff my  
offer, but when my hand grasps the base of his erection, he crushes me to his chest instead  
as his body tries to curl up upon itself--upon me--in pleasure.

Oh, if I had thought he was warm before, I was wrong. This is heat! This is  
sunlight and hearthfire and 'saberblade all contained in the swollen flesh I jerk in my  
hands. I lean back far enough to watch his face, but the rest of my body remains in tight  
contact with his reddening flesh, drinking in his responses. His dark blonde head rolls  
back and forth on the pillow, alternatingly hiding his face and laying it bare to my gaze.  
His eyes remain closed.

"Stop. No, Anakin, please--I can't--Don't!" Whatever else he was going to say is  
cut off by the gasping of his orgasm. My Master is beautiful when he comes. Every  
muscle clearly defined beneath his pale skin holds tense an eternal moment, then relaxes  
completely, all at once at rest. His body is on fire, and I am scalded by the heat of the  
liquid between our bodies. My Master falls away onto his back next to me, gasping for  
breath and serenity.

I confess I am somewhat dazed. It happened too fast. Years of fantasies had not  
prepared me for the suddenness of his orgasm. Somehow, I thought one as experienced in  
the Force as Obi-Wan would have lasted longer. Then again, it has been many years for  
him. It has not been so long for me.

Gathering the viscous fluid from our skin, I use it to slick my own hardened flesh.  
He has yet to touch me, but I am already prepared for the next step. Perhaps it is the  
remnants of the Ahluutan extract speaking, but I can't recall being as aroused by a lover as  
I am by my Master now.

He is boneless as I slip between his legs, hooking my elbows under his knees.  
Pressing forward and down opens him up to completely expose his genitals. Framing his  
round face, his knees are nearly brushing the sheets as he bows beneath me, but his Jedi  
flexibility keeps the position from being too uncomfortable. He moans a little as my  
slickened organ slides past his oversensitive skin, so I lean down to press a quieting kiss  
against his lips. He had bitten the lower at some point, and the kiss is slick with coppery  
oil. I suck the blood from off the wound, cleaning him to soothe the little hurt. Wrapping  
my long arms under his shoulders and back, my sticky fingers catch in his hair and lift his  
head to easier reach his soft lips. He is too drained to kiss me back, but I don’t mind.  
Having him near is all I need.

Oh, so tight! So good! My Master is relaxed from his orgasm; it is almost easy to  
slip inside regardless of the lack of preparation. It is a sublime joy to have his body under  
and around mine. Sensations elude every description. My deep descent into the smooth,  
feverish sheath is only stopped by the bulk of my own body; I want nothing at that  
moment more than to crawl inside and become one with his fire. His body seems to echo  
my need; he pulses around me, trying to swallow me whole.

I want to connect with his hot center and never be severed from it. I pause there,  
resting fully inside of him. We are finally as close as we can possibly be  
physically--entwined, entrapped, enraptured. Any closer and we would be the same  
person. My mind opens, searching out to connect with him while giving him every  
opportunity to establish the bond on his own. My brush of Force-will is repelled by the  
shields I find locked down in place. I try again, harder this time, and fail. I can touch his  
thoughts, but he won't let me become one with them. I want inside all the way. I send  
out another tendril, punching hard against that which resists, and I am rebuffed.

It must be the extract still in my system. I cannot find my center well enough to  
fully use the Force yet, and it is keeping me from connecting with him. I snarl lightly at  
my failure, cursing myself once more for giving into the Ahluutan. His eyes open at the  
deep sound I make.

I am seized by their azure flame, and Force connection doesn’t seem so important  
anymore. It is enough for this time to be a physical joining as I am incapable of anything  
else. I can almost see myself in the clear ocean depths of his eyes, like a picture drawn in  
watercolour on a piece of glass. I thrust once and see him wince. The fire changes shape  
on the glass, burning away the cool water of my portrait. Upon the glass, the Force shows  
me a vision--I see myself and my Master as we would look to an observer. Our bodies are  
two halves of a same circle, reflecting opposites at every glance. One hot, one cold. One  
young, one old. One light, one....

I thrust hard with my hips, and the mirror-vision shatters. Obi-Wan's eyes close  
with a whimper of distress, and I am not concerned with visions, only with the sensation  
of being devoured by my Master's heat. The joy of his sharing his heat with me is  
overwhelming, and for the first time on this long journey, I feel that the cold inside is  
lessening. Obi-Wan is my sunlight and savior; held so tight inside him, I feel I could save  
the universe.

He is moaning something, and the closer I come to my own release, the easier it is  
to understand him. It is soft at first, then grows louder and inharmonious to my pleasure.  
" ...p, Master. Please Master, please he..." The words are strange on his lips, strained and  
breathy. I've heard him call the older Jedi 'Master' several times, but he never used it  
towards me. In fact, I haven't heard him use that exact tone of voice since...

I cannot hold the thought in my head as Obi-Wan is swiveling his hips to twist  
beneath me now. So close, so close, and then there is that inner snap. Tension crescendos  
and dies. My Master's name is on my lips as I orgasm, but it never leaves as Obi-Wan  
screams out at an earsplitting volume a name.

"Qui-Gon!"

I am drenched with sweat and semen, panting against his hot chest, but I cannot  
feel that heat anymore. A different type of cold touches me. He called out his Master's  
name, not mine. The realization hurts worse than the Ahluutan drug's aftermath. My  
stomach twists and falls, and my heart tears to tiny, pulsing fragments.

It had been a lie. He wasn't sharing his heat with me at all, only with an apparition  
of his past, a figment of imagination. I am stunned, then stung, and finally I cannot stand  
to be anywhere near my beloved Master. I leap from the bed and dress quickly in my  
pants and cloak. I am already out the door when I hear him say my name. Too little, too  
late.

I do not return to my cabin; it is too cold there, and if I get near my little blue  
friend I fear I will take the entire vial in my desolation. I shield myself in case he searches  
for me and wander barefoot through the large ship's corridors. My joy has turned to  
sorrow. The first time I've felt a strong connection to my Master, and it is not my name  
that his lips speak, but the name of a dead man. Again, he has rejected me.

For a Jedi, there is only serenity--but what do you have when you've been so  
profoundly betrayed? What happens when there is only emptiness and cold, with no hope  
of release? My Master never taught me how to deal with this emotion. He never showed  
me how to find serenity when it was he himself who had shattered it.

I pass by several ship's personnel, but they do not pay me any mind. A lone Jedi  
wandering the halls in his dark cloak is nothing for concern; it is best to leave such people  
to their own devices and yourself to yours. I feel their weak minds flash past mine, and  
not for the first time I realize that it would be so easy to crush them all with my powers.  
For the first time, though, I do not suppress this dark need, merely hold it in check.

I don't know how long I wander the abandoned halls as one by one my senses shut  
down, leaving me alone with the Force. Yes, it has returned to me from the exile of the  
extract, but there is no solace from its presence. It reflects my new turmoil, seething and  
dark-striped power that bucks and flows in halted jerks. I let the tormented Force guide  
my steps to a large hanger. The thought of commandeering a craft and leaving this vessel  
and my Jedi life behind is tempting, but a dark figure pacing between the small fighters  
halts my aborted escape.

"Ah, young Skywalker!" the figure calls out before I can hide from it, and I can see  
beyond my grief that it is Chancellor Palpatine genially waving a hello with that vapidly  
vacant smile of his. The dark urge to forever wipe that hated expression from his face is  
so near I can taste it. I cannot will myself to greet him as happily, and his face falls from  
its practiced political beaming as he approaches me. "You look troubled, my friend. I do  
hope there isn't a problem with the ship." His silken voice flows like rock-filled oil over  
my skin.

I shake my head in the negative, but cannot dredge up the empty words to set him  
at ease. Unfortunately, the gesture loosens the tears that had been clinging to my lashes  
all this time, sending them splashing down my cheeks. If he is shocked by the sight of a  
Jedi losing emotional control, the Chancellor does not let it show in his face. A heavy arm  
comes to fall across my slumped shoulders, and for a moment, I fight it. I have been  
through too much and have no strength left. Palpatine turns my attempt to shrug his arm  
off into a willful embrace so that I have no choice except to turn into it.

I bury my grief in the cool fabric of the offered shoulder. It is not as warm or as  
soft as my Master's, but it is all I have. He holds me close as the worst of the shudders  
pass, then he pulls away all but the single arm across my back. I am weak as he directs me  
to his quarters on the other side of the ship from my own.

His quarters are almost as chilly as mine; large and empty of any human presence,  
space has done its duty and devoured every modicum of comfort that might have been  
present in the forbidding chambers long before we enter. His usual entourage of guards  
and companions are ensconced in their own rooms, sleeping peacefully in the relative  
safety of the spacecraft. I sense their blank minds, but I cannot read the Chancellor. This  
should disturb me, but I cannot make myself care anymore than I can make myself stop  
crying.

Palpatine pulls me along like a soggy puppet, sitting me on the couch by his side.  
His arm never leaves my body though I squirm against his chilling presence. I would  
rather be alone, but I cannot make myself leave him. "Tell me what happened, my friend,"  
he speaks the command solicitously enough.

I do not want to talk about it, but all the same the words describing the fiasco in  
my master's room come to my lips unbidden and unwanted, dripping monotonely from my  
whispering lips beyond my control. The bland look of aristocratic superiority thankfully  
leaves the older man's face, but there is no sympathy to be found there. As I get more  
uncomfortable with the personal aspects of my speech, he leans closer to support my weak  
frame against his chest. I can't shake the chill uncoiled in my belly; it seems attracted by  
his touch and rises to congeal where our flesh meets through the thin fabric barrier of my  
cloak. A smile dances on the corners of his thin lips when I reach the end of my short tale  
and taper my words to nothing.

"Poor little Anakin," he purrs near my ear. "So vulnerable. He doesn't deserve  
such a devoted padawan."

I do not deserve the title Palpatine so glibly bestows upon me. What use is a  
padawan that cannot even bond with his master? "What is wrong with me?" More tears  
fall, chilled by Palpatine's too-close breath. "Am I so disgusting? Am I so ugly to him  
that he must imagine another?"

"No!" His voice is sharp, crackling with angry power. "Never, Anakin." His  
other arm comes around to grasp my far shoulder. My braid is caught beneath his hand,  
and the pull is painful enough I must concentrate not to wince. I find myself pinned  
beneath his heavy weight as he leans over me. All together I feel eclipsed in his shadow.

"Why can't I be good enough for him?"

"Oh, Anakin," he laughs against my temple as he holds me close in a quick  
embrace. "You are so much more than 'good enough.'" I shake my head at this,  
unbelieving of his empty words of comfort. "You are so much better than he is, and he's  
jealous of you. Always has been."

I snort at the ridiculousness of his statement, though the look in his eyes makes me  
want to run away. "Jealous? Of me?"

"Whose name did he call, hmmm?" I do not answer, I hadn't told him, yet he  
knows. "Qui-Gon Jinn. His long dead Master." The venom placed in the speaking of  
Qui-Gon's name burns my cheek where it falls. "He's hated you since the day his master  
chose you as his new padawan. It's not your fault," he wipes away my drying tears with a  
quick swipe of his hand, following its track with an icy finger. "You have so much  
potential. So much more power than Obi-Wan can ever dream of. Qui-Gon knew this,  
and tossed him aside the moment he saw you. And for that he hates you."

"Chancellor, you go too far," I warn, though at the back of my mind I don't feel so  
sure of my words anymore. Throwing off the hand hurting my braid, I try to defend him,  
" My master--"

"--He would have left you to rot on that Force-forsaken planet as a slave if he'd  
had his way." I shut up at the harshness of his tone. "He's never thought of you as  
anything but another pathetic lifeform his master foisted off on him to take care of. You  
are a burden to him. You took his place in his master's heart, and he's been making you  
pay for it ever since."

My cloak had fallen open at sometime during my talk, and one of Palpatine's long  
fingered hands finds its way between the folds to rub against my bare stomach. His touch  
ignites every sore on my belly, and the latest begins to bleed against his palm. I twist  
under his painful caress, but I can't escape his powerful hold on me. "He's pushed you so  
far away, it is no wonder you take such drastic measures to find some peace."

I wrap my hand around his wrist, pulling to no avail at the powerful column of  
flesh to keep it from my injuries. "What do you know about it?" I challenge.

He laughs at this. "More than you think I do, Skywalker. You have a powerful  
destiny ahead of you. Obi-Wan keeps you from knowing your potential. I can help you  
fulfill your destiny." The insistent hand slides under the loose hem of my pants to grasp at  
my penis. I totter back in disgust at his touch, but he is so strong and I am so weak.

To my horror, I harden under his hand. "No!" All at once, my body  
reacts--twisting, hitting, fighting back with all my failing strength. I need to escape; this  
can’t be happening.

My hands are captured before they can make solid contact with a jaw, and in a  
large-handed grasp they are held above my head. My legs are tangled in his tunic; with his  
weight between them, I can't kick hard enough to get him off me. The dark-striated Force  
lashes around us, but it does not attack Palpatine as I wish it to. It wraps around me in  
tight bands until I cannot move or even breathe.

Chaos. Chaos and pain. I can't breathe! But his hand is still busy at my crotch,  
and through my struggles for breath I can feel such pleasure. I don't want this! Please  
stop. "Don't," is all I manage to gasp with the last of my oxygen. My orgasm comes  
unbidden to my body as my eyes cloud over from asphyxiation. I black out from the  
combination of sensations.

Air returns in frozen abandon to my lungs, and I swallow it in large gulps. I do not  
see Palpatine, but I can feel him in the room. He no longer blocks my sense of him, and I  
can read the evil intention through the Force. I have to get out of here. I try to move, but  
I am stuck. The dark-hued Force aura holds me to the couch with as much struggle as  
one would pin a bug. The cold air brushes against my bare skin like an over-friendly  
snake, and I realize I am completely naked. To my shame, I am still stained with the  
evidence of my body's betrayal.

With a sad cry I call out to my Master with my mind, but the Force call is caught  
and crushed before it can leave the room. "He isn't listening to you, but I am."  
Palpatine's dangerous voice whispers over my shoulder, and I shudder to be away from it.

"I hate you," I try to shout, but my voice comes out pitifully thin and broken from  
my damaged throat.

"Good, my apprentice," he praises as he steps into view before me. I don't know  
how I had never seen it before, but the Dark Side is black hole around him. It destroys  
every particle of light that surrounds him, swallowing it so that he moves surrounded by  
empty space. He steps forward, and the emptiness that surrounds him shoots forward to  
surround me. "Before we are finished, hate is all you will feel."

I feel thrown out an airlock and abandoned to the vacuum of space as he descends  
on my prone body. My mouth is covered with slick, cool lips.

Ugh, his taste is rancid! I turn my head to the side, gasping for cleansing breath.  
He takes it as an invitation to dive into the skin of my neck. He sucks in a patch, then  
bites it. "Ow! Stop!" I scream when he pinches a nipple, but a large hand muffles the  
sound.

Oh Force, this can't be happening. Cold hands trace over every inch of my body,  
pinching here and there. The ball of ice in my gut spreads at Palpatine's call, numbing my  
mind. A dark lassitude comes over me, and I am too frightened to try to fight back  
anymore. This can't be happening. Obi-Wan, why didn't you warn me about him? How  
could you not know what Palpatine is? Why have you abandoned me?

In a quick motion, I am spun and pressed into the couch cushions, barely able to  
draw enough air to breathe under the weight. Utter helplessness, a questing blunt probe,  
undeniable pressure--Then I am stabbed. The world shatters.

No no no no no no no! Stop! Owwwww! No! I don’t want this!! It's cold!  
It's COLD! I want warmth! I want Obi-Wan's warmth!! Noooooo! I don't want you! I  
don't want this! I don't! It's coooooold! Stop, oh please stop stop stop stop!  
Ooooooohhhhhh! Please, Obi-Wan! Obi-Wan! Save me! He's hurting me!!! Save me!  
Obi-Wan!! It hurts! Ow, it's cold, too cold! Master! Master!! Please help me!!! Help  
me, Master! Please Master, please help! Obi-Wan!

I begin to whisper the frightening words aloud, as though it could dissuade the  
Chancellor from his horrible task. He grunts in my ear with every thrust. Every inch of  
his intrusion is scarred upon my memory with manic detail. I call out to my Master one  
more time with my mind, but it is thrown back in my face by harsh shields. Palpatine is  
right--he is not listening to me. I am alone with this monster.

I think he is close; I hope so. His thrusts are shallower, quicker. The pain has  
lessened, but not by much. My abused body burns with the ice shaft that spits me apart.  
Each time it plunges inside me, its tip touches the cold that sits inside my gut, sparking  
energy and making me shudder. My internal cold grows, fed by his touch. My rage grows  
as my calls are unanswered and my body is battered.

I want to kill him. I want to break free of his hold and hit him until his face is no  
more than raw meat. I want to cut off his prick and shove it down his throat until he  
chokes. I want to run to Obi-Wan and be held and comforted. I want to be covered with  
Palpatine's blood as I rip him to shreds with my bare hands. I want to be saved. I want to  
destroy. I want this to end.

Then I feel the first splash of ice that coats my bowels. His hand grasps my braid  
and pulls it out of my skull with a horrible snarl. My full voice is loosened by the snapping  
pain at my neck and backside, and I scream, "Obi-Wan!" hoping beyond all reason that he  
will still rescue me from this nightmare.

The resounding laughter of Palpatine is the only answer. From the other side of  
the ship, I can't even feel any reaction from Obi-Wan to my distress. My shining knight is  
cut off from me.

He doesn't know. He doesn't know that Palpatine--what Palpatine's done to me.  
And I am...relieved at this. He doesn't ever have to know. I can hide this. I can. No one  
needs to know. I can hide it like I hide the Ahluutan. No one will know.

"He'll never want you now," the words spoken directly into my ears, filled with  
derision and brutally honest truth. "Unable to defend yourself against a single man. A  
disgrace! He won't even be able to look at you after he hears what you've done."

A new horror consumes me. "Don't--don't tell," I beg, afraid to have him know  
my humiliation. I just want this to be over.

Palpatine pauses for a moment, and I feel his pleasure sparkle through the Force as  
I am tortured on the moment. "I won't tell him." My relief is short lived. "I won't need  
to. He'll be able to smell the Rage on you. The darkness is alive inside you, my  
apprentice. He'll never accept you now." Finally the great weight of his body is removed  
from my back, but his coldness I think will never leave. I hear his footsteps move to  
another part of the room, and I want to cry at my impotence. "Run back to him, if you  
want. I won't stop you." The invisible bonds release my body.

My arms ache as I move them, and my body shudders with lancing pain as I curl in  
on myself. If I could move, I would have run across the room and torn the look of smug  
satisfaction from his dead eyes. My thoughts are black with hate, and the Dark Side calls  
to me to take its power and strike Palpatine down. I fight it, but it is a battle whose end is  
already written in the soulless stars. I have already given so much to the Dark Side, and  
once you give in, it colors your destiny.

"Stay with me, my young apprentice," his hollow voice echoes through my inner  
turmoil, "and I'll teach you to never be the weak one again. I'll show you power as you  
never dreamed. Fulfill your destiny and join me."

I shake my head, unable to move anymore despite the fact he has released me from  
the Force bonds. The small movement sends sharp pins of agony from the torn flesh  
where my padawan braid had once sat. "It is your choice, my apprentice." His footsteps  
recede as he walks to a side door.

"I hate you," I whisper with every particle of fury I have in my bloody body.

"I know." And he leaves me to suffer and choose alone.

Wetness trickles down my thigh; I'm sure most of it is blood. I am covered with  
it. My neck is slick with oily redness, and my stomach still leaks the vital liquid from the  
aggravated sore. I can't move to wipe it away; I'm frozen like a statue. I think I will  
never feel heat again. There is nothing that can melt this cold, I know it. There is  
something new inside me that nuzzles next to the ice that had always been there--a  
darkness planted there by Palpatine's cock.

The Jedi live in the light, guided by the Force to be Guardians of the Universe.  
Someone who has touched the Dark Side cannot become a Jedi. I've not only touched it,  
I've been fucked by it, reveled in its evil rage, wanted to use its retched power to deliver  
revenge. Hours away from my Trials, and I fail the greatest test of my abilities. I am such  
a failure, no wonder Obi-Wan has never truly embraced me as his apprentice.

Oh Force, the Trials! How could I have been so stupid to think I could hide  
anything during the Trials? Everything will come out then, and I won't be able to hide  
what I've done! I'll never be a Jedi. The dreams lied to me.

I lie naked on the couch until the morning comes to the ship. I do not want to see  
Obi-Wan's face when he sees how I have failed him--he has rejected me enough times in  
my life to make my decision easy for me.

I stand, padding softly to the grand bedroom. Every step closer to the closed door  
brings me greater assurance in my new power. The door opens with a negligent gesture of  
the Force. I step over the threshold and am embraced by the lightlessness within.  
Palpatine is there, curled up on his side with his back to me. His skin looks hard and  
uninviting, but I climb onto the soft mattress behind him. He does not startle at my cold  
feet, but he turns to look at my face. "Apprentice." He smiles.

"What is thy bidding, my Master," I reply.

Cold, dark space swallows me, holds me close to an icy wall from which there is  
no comfort. Evil power swims around me, whispering sweetly into my ears before it  
trickles into the delicate openings like poison. I hold on tight to what power I can,  
claiming it for my own so I will never be weak again. Obi-Wan's heat shrinks and falls  
away to become a small, luminous dot amid a vast ocean of black seething hate.

And I am cold.


End file.
